


Appetizer

by pullmydeviltrigger



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Choking, Episode: s03e01 Antipasto, Hannibal is basically asexual unless you're Will Graham, M/M, Murder, fully consensual, having sex but not being remotely into it, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 14:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18252005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pullmydeviltrigger/pseuds/pullmydeviltrigger
Summary: But there was a hint of the essence, Anthony could perhaps have within him the slightest fraction, a thousandth; a millionth of Will, one of the infinite sides of him that makes him the ethereal being that he is, that could reside within the scarfed poet, and this resonates with Hannibal, keeps him entertained.~Bedelia was his best choice, perhaps his only choice, but she simply wasn't Will.Neither was Anthony Dimmond, but it was easier to pretend.





	Appetizer

It doesn't take an especially knowledgeable or in-tune man to be able to point out the many various shortcomings of the soon-to-be-late Doctor Fell's work. Hannibal, while not having seasoned expertise, can appreciate the beauty of a poem, when composed correctly, with an extent of true feeling and reason behind it; he doubts, however, that Anthony Dimmond was one of the few poets whose work he could find himself falling into, or likely even respecting. 

 

However, he was also probably the most interesting man in the crowd he finds himself in, the deep maroon walls and especially high ceilings encasing the swine around him probably the classiest of the attractions this evening, even in everyone's black tie attire and clashing shimmering dresses. Anthony was no different than the rest of them, not really, not underneath, but shone in a different exterior at least, which Hannibal could find it within himself to tolerate without disgust. The black cat in the clowder of tabbies, and it reminded him, in an odd and nonsensical way, of home. Of the one whom he had made into his home. He longs to refresh his browser and scroll through the updates on Will's recovery, but he knows it would be futile and torturous-he knows Will is alright, at least physically, if shaken, if scarred. He will await him until he is ready. 

 

Anthony isn't Will, and barely merits the comparison, really. But there is something about the gleam in his eye, and his over-boding confidence, and the way he submits to Hannibal with a look, if only subtly, but certainly. He is teasing, baiting Hannibal into something he isn't quite sure what is, but is more than willing to succumb to the challenge and solve the mystery to find out. Likely, Hannibal considers, he has no idea that that is what will end him. And he is nothing like Will. Not even now, after everything he has been through, perhaps especially so, would Will allow himself to be so free, so brazen, at a Soirée like this, and he would certainly have the good sense not to hit on the most dangerous man in the room, at least if he didn't know him. But there was a hint of the essence, Anthony could perhaps have within him the slightest fraction, a thousandth; a millionth of Will, one of the infinite sides of him that makes him the ethereal being that he is, that could reside within the scarfed poet, and this resonates with Hannibal, keeps him entertained. 

 

Anthony keeps talking, requiring, or maybe just expecting little contribution from Hannibal. He is well aware he looks younger in leather, hair fringing and framing his face and France's sun lightly tanning his features, but he certainly isn't within the acceptable age range of men Anthony should be chasing after. He can't quite tell if the stirring of excitement within his gut is due to the excitement of the chase he is about to engage in, or the smell of desperate lust and willing pliancy that rolls off of the man before him in waves, but there's only one way to find out. 

 

*

 

Dinner was delicious, unusually moreso than the preparations. The guilt over Roman Fell's murder that he didn't feel in the first place, but is sure he can imagine, bleeds out of him whilst he is cooking, disgusted by the lack of adequate materials and dishes in a home belonging to someone of such stature and wealth. He is not so cruel a celestial being that he would refuse himself an opportunity to share in the delight of such a stunning dinner, or the woman who called herself his dinner's wife a last meal. 

 

When it is over, and he has cleaned and prepared everything, he's not sure what compels him to ride back to the gathering to see if the man was still there. He feels lightheaded, elated and bright at the forefront of his mind and deep in his gut the way he always does after a satisfying kill and running a long-standing errand in one. 

 

When he steps back in the grand hall, scanning the crowd casually and taking a glass of champagne, he is found before he finds. He is being watched by a stock-still smirking form, and their eyes meet as they sip booze that costed more than it should have for its tinned, artificial taste simultaneously. 

 

He didn't even have to take a sole step before the younger was advancing on him, gulping down the last of his two glasses and swapping them for two fresh ones on a server's tray as he approached him. 

 

"I assumed you'd given up with trying to appease the Calvary hours ago. Apparently you did. I just can't understand why you'd come back." He said with that omnipresent smile that made him look a few years younger than he even was. 

 

"A breath of fresh air on a spring Parisian night is priceless. I couldn't abide the thought of being so rude, as to taking my leave without informing the host, however." The lie was light and meaningless between them in the air as they made practiced eye contact and drank bubbles tasting of gasoline.

 

"Who says chivalry is dead, hm?" 

 

"Manners are our most valuable currency in times like these." Hannibal wonders how they must appear to the diminishing crowd, what their conversation must look like from the outside. Wonders where it is that it is going.

 

"Well," he chuckles, and it is warm and champagne smoothed. "Perhaps, but there's a time and a place for everything." He looks at Hannibal challengingly, before closing the respectful distance he had slowed his approach at, leaning into his ear. "Even vulgarities." His voice is low and suggestive, and Hannibal has the strangest urge to smile, genuinely, for he could see Anthony Dimmond providing him with, what would, for the duration of such, appear to be endless entertainment. There was something to the man, something ever so slightly darker and more amusing, a depth that the rest of the straggling party-goers did not have the capacity for. Still, it didn't come close, it was laughable to compare it to the void that possessed Will, or the abyss that Hannibal himself was, but it was enough, and paired with his cocky surety, for Hannibal to be ensnared, and he could admit there was a certain attraction to it. 

 

Because his life was infinite beauty-towering architecture that was surreal in a way that bordered on hypnotically mythical, something out of the inferno. Delicious meals with delightful wine pairings and extravagant parties that he always had the perfect attire for, all with an impossibly charming air. He loved his life, he loved the style and the cycle and the repetition of casual routine. But he was sharing it with company who couldn't appreciate the stellar glamour, the raw captivation, and the all-encompassing passion to be experienced in the hunt, the kill, the lie, and the game. Bedelia was wonderful company, and she excelled at the games they were playing, but it wasn't what he wanted-it wasn't even close. They shared many things, and there was an affection there, certainly: but they weren't equals, never in their history had they been and not in their future had would they become so. No one could be Hannibal's equal, no one except a curly haired, vision impaired, closeted sociopath with a disappointing soft spot for stray dogs and a fresh smiling scar across his lower abdomen. 

 

That is not to say Anthony was his equal, or even any more than Bedelia, but he had no self-preservation, and a clear incessant urge for something  _thrilling,_  not to mention a mild case of hypersexuality, and at least that was somewhat entertaining. 

 

"Exactly what vulgarities are you proposing, Mr. Dimmond?" Anthony hid his surprise at Hannibal's willing to engage him well, but the twitch in the left side of his face, eyebrow to smile flying higher than before, gave him away. He elected to finish the rest of one champagne glass in a small gulp, before downing half of the second in two large ones.

 

"Follow me and perhaps you'll find out." He lifted an eyebrow suggestively, as if perhaps his words could be misconstrued as too subtle, before wrapping his lips around the rim of the champagne glass and downing it in one fell swoop. Hannibal was surprised to not the find the action entirely vile and tasteless, as he likely would with almost anyone else. When Anthony had walked away, Hannibal rolled his eyes slightly, taking the minute to savour the awful champagne before indulging the half-brained man, clearly expending too much blood to his nether regions to think clearly. He wasn't sure exactly what animalistic urges he was planning to allow himself to take part in, but he was surprised to find himself somewhat anticipatory of the events to unfold.

 

Red carpeted halls with beige ceilings melded with gold decorative and detailing, and he stayed one turn behind the poet, making every sharp left or right just in time to see the other making his next. A game of cat and mouse, in which the cat was taking baby steps simply to prolong the game. They entered into a plain room, a guest bedroom for the lowest class of visitors, Hannibal would assume. He was promptly shoved against the door as soon as he had walked through it, and an experienced mouth was attacking his own, soft lips and adventurous tongue and grating facial hair, and it was a good kiss, Hannibal could see from a detached, external point of view.

 

Hannibal placed a flat palm on his chest, allowing his mouth to go fairly slack but not completely passive, before he shoved at the younger man, hard. They shared eye contact for a second, and Hannibal forced himself to swallow the slight disgust that washed over him, the disdain for other people he could not rid himself of. He swallowed it and forced Anthony back into the wall in his place instead. He opted for sucking and biting at the man's neck, feeling slightly less sickened by the prospect, made the connection less intimate and more filthy, a prospect he was much happier with. He tugged off layers and thumbed buttons through loops on shirts, careful to keep the man's scarf loosely around his neck. 

 

He brings his hands to paw at the man's buttocks, eliciting hisses and exhaling of deep breaths he feels rather hears against his neck. As he suspected, he finds what he is looking for in a back pocket of overly casual slacks, and he takes it in his hand before undoing a button deftly and wrenching his trousers down to his knees. He allows the man to step out of them himself as he carefully takes to unzip his leather jacket, before he feels the younger slap his hands away and bend at the knees, taking the zipper between his teeth and sinking with it. After undoing it and putting his mouth to work on Hannibal's trousers, Hannibal starts on his shirt, one palm gripping a condom packet as the other undid buttons, he allowed his mind to wonder, otherwise terribly bored.

 

"Well, Mr. Jakov, aren't you full of surprises?" He yanked clothes until Hannibal was naked from the waist down, still occupied with his own shirt. "Surely I could say the same of you, at the present moment." Anthony smiled up at him coyly, pathetically wantonly. 

 

"I think you knew... _exactly_  what I was the moment you laid eyes on me..." he swallowed Hannibal's half hard cock to the hilt, sparse moustache meeting dark pubic hair as the man's throat worked to accommodate him, far quicker than normal. Anthony was right, of course, he saw Anthony for the sex-crazed, cheap, sad little whore of a man that he was the moment he had met him, lonelier than he'd ever let himself believe. There was only one man who Hannibal couldn't pin within a few hours of company at most, and that was Will Graham. It was objectively good oral, deep suction and enthusiastic bobbing of the head, but it was worthless, despite the physical pleasure it brought. The man on his knees fondled at Hannibal's balls as he moaned around the cock in his mouth, Hannibal took a hand in his hair and gripped.

 

"...perhaps I did, but I certainly didn't expect this," the last syllable tapered into a hiss, and Hannibal realised he hadn't allowed himself this particular release in quite some time. It hadn't been worthwhile, even a consideration, for quite some time. His reaction so purely physical, he couldn't even bring himself to accept the pleasure in the adrenaline coursing through him, his mind a million miles away from his body. He envisions murdering the man swallowing him down, perhaps slitting his throat, maybe even breaking his neck. He thinks he will go for the option of slicing-something bloodier, messier. It will do the sex addict's life more justice. 

 

His wet tongue plays with the head of his cock, his eyes never losing the murderer's, he looks up mischievously, smirking with his eyes, enjoying being in his element, on his knees, on the floor. Teeth scrape at the rim of his helmet and he tugs on dark locks warningly, finding himself growing less satisfied as the seconds tick past, as his biological arousal grows. He tries to think of Will in Anthony's position, on his knees, mouth stuffed around his shaft, naked save for a scarf or a tie adorning his neck. He'd simply be happy to be away from all of the people, all of the tight smiles and forced small talk, and he could see him, vividly. Downing champagne and sticking to Hannibal like glue because he just didn't want to  _be there anymore._ He'd sink to the floor just to thank Hannibal for letting him leave, freeing the skull crushing weight of social niceties and large gatherings of artificial interaction, and he would put his heart into it, perhaps aroused by the risqué, improper idea of fucking in a bedroom of the gala they wormed their way into to stalk their prey. 

 

Yes, that was better. The thing is, Will Graham, unlike the mouth on him, was  _so_  much more than sex, than a warm body to be used. Together,  _they_ were and would be more than the physical connection that they shared, that sex might bring; intercourse was the tip of the iceberg for where Hannibal and Will become one, conjoined. That doesn't mean Hannibal didn't relish the idea of it, the concept of seeing Will so open, so vulnerable, so present and involved in himself and what was happening to him. He would look so beautiful, the experience would be otherworldly, life affirming, to see Will arching and keening under him, over him, and around him. He would find himself so easily by Hannibal's side, slip into any role they'd decide upon-he would look divine begging, moaning and submitting, like a most sensual, ancient, artwork. Killing with Will, hunting with him might feel similar-the mental scars and stitches left by each other thrumming as they built more together, formed and shaped themselves into something more explicitly, unbreakably attached until they were not plural, until they were unequivocally one. 

 

Hannibal thought of this as he came down Anthony's throat, no warning for either of them, before tugging the man up by his scarf and throwing him effortlessly onto silk black sheets.

 

*

 

"Hard to forget." Hannibal had called him, when he made himself into a colossal inconvenience in Florence, chasing Hannibal down and shouting his alias for all to hear. He was being kind, and Anthony heard the compliment, let himself feel flattered by it.  He invited Anthony to dinner without much thought, and Anthony wears but his standard look of bemusement when Hannibal mentions his wife. He wonders if he had had any idea how dangerous the invite was, how close the man in front of him was to death himself, flirting with it provocatively, as if it's all he knows how to do. It likely is, Hannibal supposes, and he absently wonders how terrible Anthony's poems are. 

 

The dinner was laughably awkward, Hannibal quietly delighting in Bedelia's sullen discomfort, taking sick enjoyment in seeing her squirm. He bears no ill will-simply appreciative of her aesthetic beauty and it's charged nature when she is thrown into these positions. She perhaps should have chosen her words more carefully, referencing the oysters, her ability not as refined as Hannibal's when it came to making double-ended jokes that not everyone in the room would understand. 

 

"Is it that kind of party?" He asks, British drawl light and teasing, and Hannibal wonders what it will sound like when it is soaked and choked through with his own blood. He can't help but beam at the question. He takes mercy on Bedelia after only a minute, ensuring Anthony that no, sleeping with both of them wasn't an option on the table. He smirks, satisfied that the enjoyment on Hannibal's face meant that he wouldn't be going home satisfied only by a full stomach. 

 

Whichever course of action Hannibal does take, he was right: he likely wasn't going home. 

 

The table is cleared and Bedelia makes herself scarce afterward, be it sensing the unnecessariness of her presence as the men share another glass of wine, or simply not wanting to share their company. She is graceful with her excuse as ever, and Hannibal is glad that at least he chose a courteous companion. 

 

"So," the poet began, sitting on the balcony, perched unsafely on the ledge. "Secret wife, home in Italy, full of surprises indeed." 

 

"I suppose I am." They smiled at each other falsely, nurturing drinks and admiring the prima Vera architecture. The air around them pulsed with its own atmosphere's beauty; so proud, of such an age and iconic profile in the muted rain of Florence's streets that they look otherworldly, almost too beautiful to be anything but caricature. 

 

"Do you ever let your guard down?" He asks, sipping from his glass but never lowering his eyes.

 

"What makes you think it's up now?" Hannibal asks, curious as to what end of stupidity he was sharing company with. 

 

"I'm not an entire imbecile, believe it or not. I can tell a mask when I'm being shown one. Granted, it's harder to distinguish when the mask is  _all_ you show, but," his tone is soft, and his features match it in the moonlight. "From that delightful little dinner date, you clearly don't share yourself with your  _wife,_ so, I'm curious, do you open yourself with anyone? Is there another that you aren't...pretending with?" He has managed to inch himself closer as he talked, off the ledge and into Hannibal's space, and if Hannibal were someone else it would perhaps look romantic, the star-crossed lovers in the forbidden affair, coming to a head in the moonlight of the cold Italian sky, stars and rain their only company. Hannibal smiles at him, bitingly. 

 

"Is there anyone which you don't share yourself with?" His tone is polite, if clipped, like they were conversing in small talk. 

 

"Ouch." Anthony laughs and downs his drink, and Hannibal grins, and turns on his heel. He puts their glasses in the sink and holds the door open for Anthony, the only invitation he will get to follow him. He takes the hint. They undress quickly, without attempts at talking, without pretending what is happening is anything beyond physical urges. Base, primal instincts that they have no power over, that they have no reason to deny. Hannibal grips at his hands as he takes off his scarf, pulling them down and back around his neck, fastening it loosely and carefully. Anthony smiles and it is empty, save for stale desire. 

 

He presses a condom into Hannibal's hand as he comes to straddle his lap on the bed the older man finds himself sitting on, and Anthony takes the hint when his mouth is redirected away from Hannibal's. "Can't say I'm unprepared." Hannibal doesn't respond to the statement, takes Anthony's length in his hand while the other sucked kisses onto his neck as his mind wonders to Will. Where he is, how he's recovering, how it would feel to have him here. He remembers Will as warm, from every time he has touched the man-whether his brain was engulfing his body in a fever or not, his temperature always seemed sky high, at least in Hannibal's presence, at his touch. The thought made his stomach feel light, like it was in its own private elevator to his heart's penthouse. 

 

He pushed the man off of him and down to lie on the sheets. Hannibal reaches for the bedside drawer as he bites a pink nipple, stark in contrast to pale skin, retrieves lotion, ignores the moan that bursts out of him, slicks his fingers. He wraps one hand around a cock and the other trailed down testes, past his perineum and to his entrance. Circling once, twice, before thrusting his finger in fully, drawing an explicit groan from the other. He adds a second quickly, and curls, carefulness unnecessary.  

 

"hmm, fuck, you're good at this." Hannibal stopped himself from laughing at Anthony's assumption his praise is worth hearing. He flicks his fingers and scissors them, imagines Will's body, less used, less ready, around him, his face contorting in the pain bleeding into his pleasure, envisions him writhing, gasping, thrashing and Hannibal can see himself doing it all day, driving Will to desperation, fingerfucking him and sucking him until he is sobbing and begging and utterly desperate. He has to hide his face in his substitute's neck to keep from rolling his eyes back in his head at the thought. If only, if  _only_ he had his worthy consort by his side. 

 

"Ju-just fuck,  _ah,_  fuck me, already." And Hannibal won't argue, doesn't care enough about the other or his pleasure to want to keep him writhing, to care whether he's prepared enough or not, so he rips the condom open with one hand and his teeth, strokes himself unnecessarily, fully hard after indulging in his little fantasy. He wonders what Will fantasises of, as he rolls the condom onto himself, the feeling almost restricting, wonders if he has time to touch himself, to bring himself pleasure, or if his self-deprecation doesn't allow him to enjoy it. He grips Anthony's hips with both hands and drags him down the bed, gripping thighs and prying them apart with no gentleness or care. He thrusts into him quickly, ignoring the arching back and the crying out of his current partner, if he deserves the title of such, implying an equality that simply isn't present. 

 

They fuck fairly quietly, not for respect of Hannibal's so-called wife in the next room, but rather for lack of anything to say. The occasional groan of pleasure and wet skin slapping to skin obscenely is loud enough for them both. Hannibal angles his hips and finds Anthony's prostate, simply for the fact that Hannibal isn't selfish, nor is he bad in bed, and he shan't let such a rumour spread. Should Mr. Dimmond not have the opportunity to spread it, either, he didn't want anyone's last experience of pleasure to be half-mast. It is rhythmic and hollow, and Hannibal finds himself more invested in the idea of redecorating the guest room if he is to stay here relatively long-term. To do so requires less Anthonys, less liabilities, however. He finds small cracks in the floor board and chips in the paint, and the room suddenly feels as cheap as the encounter, and he can't help but think none of it would matter, not the walls or the floor or any sole part of the house if Will were with him. He doesn't think he'd be able to spare the space in his head to even contemplate it, to even notice it, his counterpart too bedazzling, too remarkable and outstanding for Hannibal's attention to stray for a moment. 

 

"I don't know why you're doing this." Anthony breaks him out of his reverie to tell him, sounding breathless, clearly not as bored as his bedmate.

 

"Don't you?" Hannibal looks down on him, physically and metaphorically, and wonders how he'd like to die. 

 

"You're not fucking anyone else, and if you wanted to you'd have plenty of options," he's panting now, smiling up once again as Hannibal takes him by the scarf and tugs, just a little, an inkling of pressure and nothing more. "I'm not one for modesty, but I don't understand what makes me so special." Hannibal simply grunts and fucks in to his heat harder, wildly and animalistic, almost knocking the other man's head into the headboard. It might be a blessing for both of them if Hannibal were to knock him out. 

 

"I don't even think you're enjoying this..." he continues, more and more wanton, exerted as he climbs the peaks of physical gratification. "I think you-oh, fuck, yes,  _there, Jakov-_ you do it...so you can pretend I'm someone else, later." Hannibal evades the momentary surprise of hearing his alias' surname, doesn't bother responding to his theory, yet again very little to say. He isn't wrong, but he isn't right either. Anthony couldn't hope to understand, to even see the peak of the ice berg of Hannibal Lecter, never-mind a snippet of his relationship with Will. He smiles, wider, sluttier, through his jerky, whole-body pounding, knowing he's at least on the right tracks as he hums out a moan and takes a second to catch his breath as his prostate is assaulted. 

 

"Mmf-is he pretty, Boris? Is he good for you? Does he moan your name and ask you to fuck him harder?" He's teasing, not bad natured but not goodly either, and Hannibal snarls, beastlike. The truth is, it didn't matter how he meant the words, he had made a mistake by speaking them, and Hannibal was certain what he'd do now at least, the decision made for him. He takes the scarf in his hands, resting his weight back against his knees, and slips one tail under the other and  _pulls,_ not hard enough to be life threatening, but a clear warning, a clear omen. Anthony just smiles through it and reaches down to tug on his own cock, and Hannibal should have expected nothing less, as he pulls the scarf tighter, until the man under him is red faced and spluttering as much as he can without the use of his windpipe, and he comes all over himself, thankfully missing Hannibal's stomach. Hannibal continues thrusting, faster, harder, sheer brutality as he loosens his grip on the scarf to return it tenfold, revelling in the panic in the younger poet's eyes. He eases off as he orgasms, picturing Will's faces, hearing his voice, feeling his touch, and for a moment Hannibal is scared he might cry, pathetically enough. He staves off, blinks back tears and pulls out of Anthony, tying and throwing the used condom in the en-suite bin. 

 

Anthony lies there spent, for only a minute, before reaching up to start getting dressed. 

 

"Lie down." Hannibal tells him. He receives a sceptical look, an "are you kidding?" Like he just told him to look outside at the flying cattle. Hannibal supposes he's not stupid enough to understand that Hannibal desiring to spend more time with him, perhaps for post-coital  _cuddling_ was equally as plausible. He does so without question, however, waiting, seemingly not anxious, not at all disturbed by his being severely choked only minutes before. Hannibal was subtle, retrieving his scalpel from the bedside, and manages to keep concealed in his palm as he straddles the other's chest. 

 

"Have you ever imagined dying, Anthony?" 

 

Anthony looks up at him, and he keeps his expression stoic, better at hiding than the last time they met, but Hannibal sees his pupils widen, and  _ah,_ he thinks.  _Perhaps he's finally getting it._ The confusion is broadcasted behind his eyeballs, trying to discern whether this is just on the right side of weird or if he might be about to say goodbye to what Hannibal can only assume is a pitiful life. 

 

"Hasn't everyone?" He asks, mock confidence less convincing than it was before. 

 

"How would you like to die?" Hannibal asks, tugging on the scarf delicately fastened around his raw neck. "You seem to enjoy poeticism, perhaps with some elegance? A treasured scarf choking the life out of you. Then again, you seem to find pleasure in filth, too. Perhaps you'd prefer a bloodier end than that?" Hannibal toys with chiffon in one hand, gripping the scalpel with the other, more excited and engaged than he had been throughout the entire duration of their pitiful reunion-sex. 

 

"I never got around to planning the particulars...or is this a threat?" He asks, tone carefully neutral, even through the sarcasm. 

 

"No, not a threat...I think the scarf would be more fitting, don't you?"

 

Anthony at least has the sense to look terrified for all of a minute, as Hannibal grips both ends and tugs, puts in all of his might, and he wonders how Will would look like this, too. Thinks of how much more elegance and grace he'd die with, instead of kicking and choking and spitting and scrambling. Perhaps his eyes would roll back in his head as the life is squeezed out of him, some foreign mortal enjoyment as he gives himself, his very existence over to his maker. Yes, he thinks he would very likely accept the fate Hannibal deemed appropriate for him, as after all, Hannibal may not be God, but he is the closest thing Will will ever have to faith in such a deity. Will would go with Hannibal anywhere, wouldn't dare to betray him, make the same mistake again. Will knew better, Will knew to trust Hannibal, that he would never be allowed to fall without Hannibal catching him, so long as they both lived. Anthony's eyes bulge. 

 

"He is beautiful, by the way." Hannibal smiles at him, kneeing down an arm that tries to scratch its way up his arm, his chest, his face. Uneducated-one should always aim for the throat or the groin, in such a scenario as this. The most sensitive and also the easiest flesh to rip into. 

 

"He's the most wonderful being I've ever laid eyes on." Hannibal smiles almost fondly, watching with a heartened detachment as Anthony's head falls to the side, his chest stills, and his eyes lie open and staring at the scalpel now next to the bed, unseeing. 

 

Hannibal sighs as he sets about tidying and dissecting. One doesn't have the luxury of taking a break before they prepare their food when the butchery is so unprepared for the kill. He is only semi-present during the process, but it takes less time than he expected. He stares at the ceiling, unwilling to go back to his own bed, to do much of anything, permitting himself numbness, of body and mind, the only image in which of Will Graham's smile, his soft laugh, his face covered in blood and his form shaking over one of the various dead bodies the FBI have laid at his feet. 

 

He lies there for hours, authorising his own quietness, nothingness he doesn't often engage in. And then, there is a cool wind, a breeze that starts in his chest, his heart, and spreads. It takes roots, blue and turning black, in his lungs, spreads to his gut and downward, stomach and groin and thighs and legs and then it takes hold of his mind, grips it absolutely and purely, rather than a slow spread like the rest of his body. And he sees his face, but it is not through the looking glass of memory, the kaleidoscope of fantasy, but the affixation they share scalds him, and Will Graham is back. Will Graham is here, and Hannibal can  _breathe,_  he is alive and he is here and Hannibal can see it, in his memory palace-a memory yet to come, of he and his beloved standing on top of the world, on the rolling heads of those they do not deem worthy of the oxygen they breathe. He sees them, at the edge of a cliff, he sees blood and love and eyes opening for the first time, the chrysalis is opening, and Will Graham is becoming, dawning, and falling, and he is taking Hannibal Lecter with him. 

**Author's Note:**

> well god fucking damn this ended up longer than it was meant to be, i have an actual disorder in that I apparently can't write anything that's less than 3,500 words minimum? WELP anyway, this strangely made me feel better about Anthony's dumbass bitch self going and getting himself murdered, without even getting his threesome or a good fuck for it, and also like rarepairs need love :( 
> 
> I haven't even self-beta'd this so pls pls pls feel free to point out mistakes if you spot them. thank you for reading <3


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